You
by Sage Pagan
Summary: Letters for an illusion.
1. Desperate

_A/N_: So I posted this up a few weeks back, but then deleted it the same day I uploaded it. But, due to some encouragement from two of my friends, **Thunderxtw** and **Junking,** I've decided to re-post this little fic. I dunno if I'll keep it as a oneshot or continue it. It depends on my mood. Anyways, hope you like it. Just some emotions I wanted to let out for that special person...who should be here right now, but sadly isn't. Hurry up! ;)

For **You**, who captured my heart and made me believe. Always for **You**.

--

Dear You,

My lone wolf. My wanderer. My warrior. My love.

You told me once, my beloved, that you were afraid.  
I understand now. I too am afraid.

You wept in my ear, whispered your shame. You told me you loved me, and I know it to be true. You said my name, and now I am lost. There's no going back. I may anger. I may cry, I may accuse, I may suppress. But always, I am lost without you. Always, I am whole with you. There is no going back.

If you're reading this, know that I love you, and I only wish for your well being. Those words I said...I didn't mean to hurt you. I just wanted some honesty. Some communication, something we have lacked for these long months. Is it because of me that you're gone? How do I make it right?

My heart weeps. It calls for you. Can you hear it? Can you feel me, in your skin, in your hair, taste me in your voice? I am with you. But are you with me? Please say yes...I don't want to cry anymore. I don't want to wonder anymore. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you. I miss you, damn it, and I wish you'd answer.

I just want to hold you. Please, I just want to hold you. Cradle your head against my breast and kiss away the wounds that I know can never heal. Stay with me, stay with me, and I will hold you and whisper sweetness into your bitter. I don't know if I can stop hurting. Your pain is my pain. Please make it stop. Please just come home. I don't know if I can stop weeping. These tears are too familiar, their salt reminds me of you, and I wish it would rain again. Remember when I rain-danced for you? Remember that summer? I am afraid and I'm worried. Tell me what to think.

Until you return, these letters won't stop.

You. It's all for you. It's all because of you.  
I am waiting. I am waiting.

Love,

Me


	2. Imagine

Dear You,

I registered for classes at the University. I told you to meet me there. You didn't show. Maybe you didn't remember. Maybe something's gone wrong. I'm not angry; I'm worried now, more than I ever was before. What else is new?

You know, I imagine I hold you at night, under the covers and atop the cold spots of my dark sheets. Nothing carnal, nothing erotic...just...holding you. Listening to the sound of your slumber. Feeling your arms at my waist, your breath on my throat, the quiet brush of my lips on your brow. My imagination is all I've got these days, and it is my imagination that has kept me going.

But I wonder how long my imagination can last. Will I one day abandon you for someone I can hold at night, someone I can hear and talk to and laugh with?

Tell me, what exactly am I waiting for?

I'm sorry. I've grown fond of rhetorical questions.

You know, I imagine touching you. Nothing carnal, nothing erotic...just...touching you. I'm mapping you out with my hands and mouth and eyes. A soft caress on your cheek, a hand through your hair, a gossamer kiss on your mouth, a simple hand hold and whispered word in your ear. I imagine we're at a little restaurant, it's midday, and we're sitting across from one another, laughing and talking and forgetting about our food as you take my hand in yours and we stare out the window at the city and enjoy time rather than fear it. The world flashes by in groaning steel and whirlwinds of color, in hardened hearts sauteed in oil and forgotten dreams, tainted with pessimism and the toxic ashes of past woes and regrets--

--and yet we sit. And touch one another.

A soft caress on the cheek.

A hand through the hair.

A gossamer kiss on the mouth.

A simple hand hold and whispered word in the ear.

We sit, and enjoy time rather than fear it.

All imagined. No wonder I'm so great at telling made up stories, or even other people's stories--but I can't seem to begin to tell my own story without you here to take a part. I searched for you in the crowds, for the long raven hair and rain gray eyes. I tried to ignore it, but my heart hurt nonetheless. I tried to ignore it, so I stifled my heart for the day and smiled my best.

I'm sitting alone in the dark again. The moon is hiding tonight. How many times will I sit alone in the dark?

"And what if you don't like your 'insides'? What if you don't want to show anyone?"

Veronika, the international student from Slovakia, read it out loud. It was a random note she'd drawn from the little pile in the center of our circle. They were anonymous, the statements and questions ambiguous, the purpose solely for discussion. She read it again. Eight Chinese students and three Americans pondered after her accented voice had faded to silence. Another one of those freshman cheesy, emotional, bonding activities. We participated anyway.

"I hope whoever wrote that note realizes that we all here are amazing and unique people. We are all seeds. We're still growing. All we have to do is allow for some rain and sun in order to do that," one girl said with a somewhat sheepish smile on her face. Her message was corny, but though I cringed inwardly, it's a nice metaphor. Cliche, but nice still. Besides, it's hard to find someone my age who speaks in metaphors.

I wrote that note.

It's true. Sometimes I hate my 'insides' and sometimes I want to hide--especially from you. But I want you to dig me out. I want to show you my insides, even if I don't know myself what lies beneath this skin.

My college orientation leader said something about a mental health service for people with depression. He said it would help. But I smiled to myself; no prescription medication or leather-chair-and-clipboard appointment with a shrink can help me. I know of only one pill that I need, and he's an angry, lost, lovable, beautiful, five-foot-eleven warrior with way too much love for me but not enough common sense to keep him on a straight asphalt road without a few scars and bruises.

You know, I imagine you're here with me. Every day.

Love,

Me


	3. September

Dear You,

It's been more than a month now since you last contacted me. A lot of things can happen in a month.

In some ways I resent you. You've taken something from me that can never quite be the same. Even if we end up parting ways, even if I never see your face, a part of me will always love you. I hate people like that. I care about you, don't you realize that? I'm sure you do. Don't ask me why. People ask me silently why I care. People hear your story and ask me silently why I care. People see me suffer and ask me silently why I care. It's not something I can explain. You're not something I can explain.

All I know is right here, right _here_, that pulse beneath the palm of my hand, that scarlet under my skin, that vision behind my eyes, in my head, in my heart. My heart.

My downfall.

Autumn's here. I can feel her breath on my body. I hold the memory of summer within each strand of hair and each letter of my name; the sun and the warmth linger beneath my skin, bronzed from hours of exposure. And yet quickly the sun begins to escape me; paler I grow. Wilted, angry and subdued I grow. Autumn, death, change, pushes for dominance. The hydrangeas fade beneath her long fingers, the lily of the valley stiffen beneath her whispers, the plum Japanese irises evanesce to gray. Even some of the trees have lit on fire prematurely, their leaves anxious to sacrifice their color beneath Autumn's scythe. September means change.

Will you be a part of that change? Or will I wait another month, another year?

You say you're lost. But aren't we all, sweetheart? Do any of us know exactly where we're going all the time, every day, every moment?

Life is seeking for the lost. Life is waiting to be found.

I have found you, but now it is your turn.

In some ways I resent you. Guiltily, I admit I've looked. I admit I've tried to be found; I've tried to find you in someone else. In a smile. In a piece of clothing. In their eyes. In their laughter. In their hair. But they're only shards, only shards that fit miserably together and fail to become all of you. I can't move on, but I fear that we may grow apart. After all this time, we may just grow apart. Even then I'll still care about you.

I stare at my hands, at my room, at this life that I have been given. Everything I hold, nothing I do not possess. Except for you. I'm still waiting for _you_, for you to complete this painting. It's funny how I have everything I want, how my life is seemingly perfect in the eyes of others; many would kill to be in my position. Loving family, great education, opportunities left and right, friends I can talk to...and yet I sleep at night, suffocated by the loneliness, and longing for only one thing. Does that sound right to you?

A dear friend of mine told me that if your love made me suffer this much, then maybe your love wasn't worth mine. And I listened to him, and I know that he's right. He listens to me. He has seen me suffer. He has heard me weep over you. He has listened to me bitch, and whine, and praise you--all in the same breath. He has been there for me more than you have. Does that sound right to you?

And maybe, my love, I don't understand something. Maybe, my love, you're out there wounded and still searching. Maybe I am overreacting.

But maybe, my love, it is_ you _who doesn't understand_._

Love,

Me


	4. Sheherezad

Dear You,

This letter will be more colloquial than the others. It is because I am exhausted from trying to convey my emotions to people who don't understand anyway. It is because you are not even here to know my emotions, so why bother? So I will stick to the simple. I will say it like it is without too intricate a mask of symbolism and imagery and metaphor. Here are my hands, open before you. Here is my voice in your ear. Here are my words on my mouth. Here are my thoughts, within your reach for once. Here is my heart, lingering between the lines, something you think is only yours, a theory that has been tested and proven false.

Something's changed.

Sometimes, distance doesn't make the heart grow fonder. Sometimes, distance makes the heart forget. Sometimes it makes the heart resent, distrust, give up.

I'll always love you. But enough's enough.

I don't want to say it's gone, over, done, what we had. Perhaps just postponed. Perhaps never been there at all. Perhaps just a wasted wisp of daydream that I should have discarded long ago. Perhaps really a soul mate experience. What we had. Or maybe still have. I wish you were here to tell me what it is exactly that we have/had/should have/will have. But what I do have now is my own life. College is wonderful, and you know, I've grown used to not having you here with me, and that's not exactly a good sign, is it? Or maybe it is. Maybe I'm not supposed to be with you. Is that why, every time we plan on meeting, nothing ever happens? Is that why I cry more than smile when I think of you? "Boys aren't worth crying over, and when you do find one worth crying over, he won't make you cry." Simple. But true. You've no idea how many tears I've shed, how much I've risked, in keeping you in my heart.

I am independent by nature, but I never thought I'd go a day without thinking of you at least once. You know what? It's happened numerous times. You know what? It's beginning to feel normal.

Besides...someone else has taken an interest. At least, I think so. I can't figure boys out anymore. I've a terrible track record with them, and I'm afraid of what I'll find. But even if he's not interested in "that way" with me, the attention is nice. It's more than what you've given me. It comforts. I'm still desirable after all. I don't have to be a lone wolf after all.

Like_ you_, he dances. Break dancing and clubs. _Hip hop and "booty shaking."_

Like _you_, he wants to live life to the fullest. Little things are everything. _Fun and spiritual connection are everything._

Like _you_, he can be a reckless thrill seeker. He snowboards, and laughed when a bus nearly clipped his face off. _You've streaked in front of an audience of Catholics, and broken your ankle on a basketball hoop--and still wanna do it again._

Unlike_ you_, he doesn't love me. He's a friend._ I have your "heart and soul."_

Unlike _you_, he's here with me. _You're lost._

And I like his company. I may find more like him to keep me company. And will you stop me?

And should I say no, sweetheart? Should I deny all prospects of love and friendship as I wait for you, a phantom devotion with his spiderweb promises and voiceless thoughts? Then how long should I wait? Another month, another year? Another five years?

I am not Aphrodite with her harem of lovers, nor am I Artemis with her chastity and her courage. I am not Hera with her thunderous jealousy, nor am I Athena with her fierce wisdom; if I was, I wouldn't be writing these ridiculous letters. And I am surely not Penelope with her longevity; no way in hell am I waiting for twenty years.

I am Sheherezad with her endless supply of stories, though surely with far less talent than she at telling them. But like her, I possess enough creativity and imagination to get me through another night. That's how it is with you. It was romantic at first, but now it's disheartening. Sickening. Maddening. It's time for Sheherezad to tell a different story; it's time for her to live without fear.

I am a dreamer by nature, but I never want to live my life wishing and waiting and dreaming for something as unattainable and notoriously absent as you.

If you ever do decide to come, if you ever decide I'm important enough for a commitment, you know where to go. I have done my part; it's all up to you now.

As for me...I am going to see where this all takes me. Where he takes me. Where I take me.

I want to say thank you, though, thank you for everything. You made the lonely nights somewhat bearable. You put this imagination to use. You gave me reasons to smile. Thank you. Take care, my little warrior. _Uhyu'-sti_. Farewell.

Or, dare I say..._donvdagohvi_. Until we meet.

Love,

Me


	5. December

_Bury me softly in this womb._

**_I give this part of me for you_**

_Sand rains down and here I sit,_

_Holding rare flowers in a tomb..._

**_Down in a hole and I don't know if I can be saved._**

_See my heart,_**_ I decorate it like a grave;_**

_You don't understand who they_

_Thought I was _**_supposed to be._**

_Look at me now, _**_a man_**

**_Who wont let himself be._**

_Down in a hole, _**_feelin' so small_**

_Down in a hole_**_, losin' my soul_**

_Id like to fly,_

_But _**_my wings have been so denied._**

_"Down in a Hole" --_Alice in Chains

* * *

Dear You,

It was around this time last year, same month, same week even, when I first broke your heart. And now, this year, this month, this week, you've broken both of ours. But it was a mutual thing this time. It's what we both wanted--and didn't want. I was wrong about September. December's the time that changes everything.

If you haven't noticed by now, I write every time the emotions get out of hand. Or when they're so controlled, it's abnormal. So I'm writing again, here, where I know you might look. Here, where things began--and ended--for all of us. Here, where I might still have some level of courage.

I remember the first time I heard your voice. I remember the late night conversations. I remember the sound of your laughter. I remember how it felt like when you told me you loved me. Love me. I remember everything, will always remember...but those details are for you and me.

Sometimes I wish I would forget everything.

You're a complicated soul. I've tried to hold you up, attempted to smooth over the cracks, but it's like holding sand. Inevitably, slowly, you creep between my fingers and find all the crevices, seeping through and disappearing, plummeting to the ground until I'm holding nothing but little grains, tiny crystals clinging to skin and memory.

I'm in love with the wind.

I can't see it...but I can feel it. Hovering around my body, at the tips of my fingers, but I can never quite grasp it. It teases, whispers dreams and promises, dances in and out among my mind and around the edges of my heart, through my heart, ruffles my hair--and vanishes.

I'm in love with the wind, and yet these trees tie me down to this frozen ground. I'm in love with the wind, and I cannot follow, not because I cannot see it, but because you won't let me. And because, in some ways, I won't let me either.

But how do I know that when--if--I do manage to catch up with the wind, it will allow me to hold it for longer than a second? Will I continue to dream and love and chase that wind?

Like you, I want to see the world. But here in this soil my roots go deep, and where do yours go? You wander where you wish, and see and know things that I will never see and know. We are worlds apart, you and I, and that's why you intrigue me. Maybe that's why I love you so, knowing that you're so close, yet so unattainable, knowing that somewhere out there lies a dream that I can make real.

Like wolves, we love the hunt. Elusive, secretive souls, we love the solitude--to a point. We enjoy the company of our pack mates, but often find ourselves more alone than we'd like.

The lone wolf loves to sing, but to whom? With whom? But one day the world will hear your song, and I will be among those seas of faceless onlookers, beaming with pride, even if you can't see me.

Maybe wind's built in your blood. Maybe it's seared within the bark of your soul. Or maybe it was forced into your heart and that's all that you know.

Either way, I will keep shining for you. Because that's what you asked, right? To keep on living. And I will. December brings shorter days, and the light fades swiftly as winter kisses the earth cold, the sun diminishing to a mute white spot in the sky...but the sun will always shine. Whether with warmth or with cold, the sun will always shine.

But I feel like forgetting.

That Brazilian girl, and the other girls, were your escape weren't they? I'm going to make myself believe that, for I seek a similar escape. I want a pretty face to make me forget. I want foreign hands on my flesh so I can't long for yours.

_Touch me. Make me forget. Make me toxic. Make me love to hate._

I'm aching to go dancing. I'm aching for a fight, for fists and blood, for kisses and tongue and skin-on-skin that mean absolutely nothing. I want to feel something so intense it'll make me forget everything, if only for a fleeting moment. I don't wanna think anymore. I want to go to those darkened dance floors and illuminate my body in artificial light and smile artificial joy and forget, forget, forget. I want a boy to dance with, a boy whose name I won't know and won't care to know, a boy I can use and play with to make me forget you, you and my family and the rifts in between. I'll make him touch my flesh and kiss my skin, and I'll inhale his smell and look up into his eyes and forget.

I wanna feel _good_, I wanna feel desired; I wanna use that boy 'cause I want that power, 'cause I don't have that power to find you and hold you, but I do have that power to make him dance and touch me. I wanna conquer that boy and have him coming back to that same spot on the dance floor every time, holding me close and askin' for more, hands on my hips and mouth on my neck. And they'll ask for my name, they'll ask for my number, they'll ask to go some place quieter, they'll ask for secret, dark, shameless things, and I'll smile and slip away, 'cause the spell's been broken and I need another forget-me-yes drug that'll have me good and high and gone.

Maybe one day I will say yes. Maybe one day I'll go into those quieter, darker places, and never look back. It's unbelievable how much things have changed. Or maybe it had always been there, and I've been too blind to notice.

I know you can't bear another man's hands on me. But it's gonna happen, I'll tell you that right now. It will happen. I want it to happen. No one's here to stop me but me.

Sick love; I smile at the memory. Jin called you and me "sick love": love like "a cold that just won't leave." A virus. You make me sick.

I'm a fool to think that I could ever forget. But it's worth a try. "Time heals everything" they say, right? We'll see. We'll see.

Maybe you don't think you've made a mark on this world, but you sure have made a mark on me. I think you're _afraid_ to see me, because you're afraid that I'll _see _you. Afraid of what I'll do or say or think. Well...I guess you still don't know me.

All I want is to see you. All I want to do is hold you.

All I want to do is forget.

Never stop singing. Let no one silence you. Never stop dancing. Embrace that wind, even if it takes you miles away from me. I want you to find what you're looking for.

Even if I forget, I'll always listen, regardless of how off-key your voice, regardless of how short or long the melody. I will always listen.

Love,

Me

* * *

"All we really need to survive is one person who truly loves us. And you have her." -_-Lost_


	6. Truth

**It was all an illusion. The truth will indeed set you free. **~_Sage_

* * *

Dear Hwoarang,

It's December again. Another year gone by. December, our month of change. Seems I'm always the one changing things. Then again, it's only because I want the truth. If that requires change and turmoil and rage and sorrow, then so be it.

You may be the type to hold everything inside of you, to bury it all away until someone demands it from you, but I write about it. I write to make sense of things, to calm these chaotic thoughts. So even though it might annoy you that I'm writing to you again, just bear with me.

I realized two years too late that I should have never become involved with you. I realize you were never a source of love. It was just compassion. Sadly, I think we might have been really, really great friends. But we just took it to the wrong level way too fast.

When we met we were hollow, and we sought that fulfillment in one another; but the distances between us, both physically and emotionally, were too much. Your lies and my idealism made us impossible. I was innocent, hopeful and compassionate. You took advantage of that. You were sweet and comforting, and you listened to me. I took advantage of that. And I mistakenly envisioned something that would never come to be, a relationship rooted in illusions and emptiness. We thought that "love" could be enough, that it would miraculously eradicate that loneliness and lack of self-worth. But we both know that only we individually can find that happiness within ourselves. No one person can give us that.

Once, my former high school art teacher was showing us paintings. "That is not painting," he said, pointing to a juvenile, recklessly portrayed landscape. "That is merely filling space with color."

That's how it was with you. I was just filling the empty spaces inside me with color, hoping that one day it would become a masterpiece, when really, I had never begun to paint in the first place.

I just wish that you had known me better. Then you would have known that you could have told me anything. But it's too late for that. I'm hurting, but that's the price of knowing the truth.

I am also free. That's what matters most.

You were my biggest illusion.

There is something so beautiful and seductive about illusions. The thing about illusions is that they can be however you want them to be; you are in control. But sometimes you let them take too much control, and you ignore and overlook that instinct, that intuition, that has been warning you all along. Eventually reality comes crashing down on you, your perfect snow globe world shatters, and you're left with nothing but shards of glass embedded in bloodied hands. You're left with nothing but the truth, which has been there all along. And I just failed to see it.

No, not failed. Refused.

I deserve an apology at the least. But knowing how you care so much about other people's perceptions that you are even willing to deceive your own family for years, I don't think I'll get one from you. Because I don't "understand" you. Well, I understand you more than you think. I'm just choosing not to wonder about that anymore.

I wrote all those letters with you in mind. You can see how much you haunted me. They're yours now, and I need to give them to you so that they don't sit in my laptop with no purpose. So that I don't feel like all those emotions and all that effort was in vain.

Sincerely,

Julia

* * *

_How strange when an illusion dies. It's as though you've lost a child. _--Judy Garland

"It's easy to love someone, Julia. The hard part is trusting them." --a friend


End file.
